Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
James stood in his study with the quill clenched too tightly between his fingers, the parchment before him bearing only half a letter as ink pooled at its tip.
The words refused to come, though the duty behind them was clear enough, summon the allied clans, announce the binding, make the lie real enough to withstand scrutiny.
He exhaled sharply and set the quill aside, dragging a hand down his face as frustration coiled in his chest.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, pacing the length of the room like a caged beast.
He had been meant to be a solution to her problem, a temporary shield against Drummond, nothing more. He wouldn't allow another woman to succumb to same fate as his sister, Jenny.
Yet now every thought bent toward her, every decision tangled in the weight of her presence. He reached for the whiskey and poured a generous measure, tossing it back in a single swallow as though it might burn her words from his mind.
James… we are nae truly betrothed. And I think it best that I leave as planned.
“She was quick to remind me that night meant nothing to her. I must accept that.”
The memory of her beneath his hands rose unbidden, the warmth of her skin, the way she had looked at him with parted lips and unguarded desire as she released for him.
He braced himself against the table, gripping its edge as if to steady the storm within him. “It meant nothing,” he said aloud, though the lie rang hollow in the empty chamber. He had told himself it was only desire, a moment of weakness, yet the truth gnawed at him with relentless certainty.
It had not been only that, and he knew it. He poured another drink, slower this time, and carried it to the window where the cold air struck his face. Outside, the gardens stretched in quiet beauty.
His gaze settled, on Mairead bent over the beds of herbs, clipping stalks with practiced ease.
James stilled, something cold and sharp slipping through his thoughts as memory stirred.
He saw again a much younger Mairead, laughing beside Jenny, holding up a dark berry with a curious gleam in her eye.
“This one is dangerous,” she had said then, almost delighted, as she spoke of its poison. His stomach turned now at the recollection, unease settling deep in his gut. Belladonna. The healer’s words echoed in his mind, and his grip tightened around the glass.
“Nay, Mairead isnae capable of such treachery,” he muttered, shaking his head, yet doubt lingered like a shadow he couldnae shake.
He set the drink aside and strode from the room, each step fueled by a need he couldn't ignore.
The corridors blurred as he descended toward the gardens, his expression hardening into something cold and unyielding.
When he reached her, she turned at once, her face lighting with a bright smile that seemed almost too eager.
“James,” she said softly, straightening as though she had been waiting for him.
He didn't return the smile, his eyes sharp as they swept over her, taking in the faint green stains upon her fingers.
“Mairead,” he replied, his voice low and controlled. “What are ye doing?”
She glanced at the plants and laughed lightly, holding up her shears.
“Tending the garden, as I always have. Ye ken this place is dear to me.”
“Aye,” he said, stepping closer, his presence looming as the warmth drained from the air between them. “I ken many things about ye.”
Her smile faltered, just for a heartbeat, before she recovered, tilting her head with feigned innocence. “Do ye now?” she asked.
James’s gaze didn't waver. “I ken ye have knowledge of herbs,” he said evenly. “Of plants that heal… and plants that harm.”
The shears stilled in her hand, and something uncertain flickered in her eyes.
“What are ye sayin'?” she asked, her voice quieter now.
“I am askin',” he corrected, his tone sharpening as he stepped closer still, “if ye had anythin' to do with what befell Eloise.”
Mairead’s breath caught before she shook her head quickly. “Nay,” she said. “I would never harm her.”
James studied her, searching her face for truth, for guilt, for anything that might betray her.
“She was poisoned,” he said bluntly, watching her reaction with careful attention.
Mairead’s hand trembled slightly before she lowered it, her expression shifting into wounded disbelief.
“Ye think I would do such a thing?” she asked, her voice breaking. “After all these years, James?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “that ye have reason.”
Her eyes flashed then, hurt giving way to anger as she stepped toward him.
“Why? Because ye were to be mine?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Because I have waited for ye while ye ignored what was always meant to be?”
James’s jaw clenched, but he didn't retreat. “This was never promised,” he said firmly. “Nae by me.”
She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “Ye can say that now, when ye have chosen another,” she shot back. “But ye ken well what was expected of us, and now ye think I would harm yer betrothed. I would never do such a thing.”
“I have seen the way ye look at her. I would never hurt someone ye care for,” she said. “I swear it, James. I may be foolish, but I am nae cruel.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, weighing her words, measuring the truth he couldn't fully grasp.
Then his expression hardened once more. “If I find that ye lie,” he said each word edged with steel, “ye will have hell to pay, Mairead.”
She flinched at that, but recovered quickly, lifting her chin in defiance. “Then find yer proof,” she said, though her voice wavered just slightly. “Because I have nothing to hide.”
She reached for him then, her hand brushing his arm in a gesture that might once have softened him. “James,” she murmured, her voice dipping into something more familiar, more intimate. “Ye cannae truly cast me aside for a stranger.”
He stepped back at once, breaking the contact as though it burned him.
“Daenae,” he said sharply, his tone cutting through her attempt.
Her hand fell to her side, her expression tightening as the rejection settled between them.
“Whatever ye think this is, it ends now,” he said.
Mairead’s lips pressed into a thin line, her composure cracking just enough to reveal the storm beneath. “We shall see,” she said softly, the words carrying a weight he didn't miss.
Eloise stepped out into the gardens beside Beatrice, drawing in a slow breath of fresh air as though it might settle the restless unease within her.
The afternoon had been quiet until a sharp rise of voices broke the stillness, carried faintly on the breeze from beyond the garden wall.
She paused mid-step, her brows knitting as she tilted her head.
“Do ye hear that?” she asked.
Beatrice stilled beside her, listening, then nodded. “Aye… someone is arguin', though I cannae make out the words.”
The sound rose again, sharper now, edged with tension that made Eloise’s stomach tighten.
Without thinking, she moved toward it, her skirts brushing against the gravel path as Beatrice hurried to keep pace. They rounded the corner of the garden wall, and there beneath a broad-limbed tree stood James and Mairead, their bodies angled toward one another in a charged confrontation.
Though the distance kept their words from reaching clearly, the intensity was unmistakable in the rigid set of James’s shoulders and the movement of Mairead’s hands.
Eloise stopped short, her breath catching as something sharp twisted in her chest.
“It is them,” she whispered, her gaze fixed upon the pair.
Beatrice leaned slightly forward, squinting. “Aye… and it doesnae look a friendly exchange.”
Eloise’s fingers curled at her sides as a surge of emotion rose, sudden and unwelcome.
“They argue as though…they're lovers,” Eloise said.
Beatrice glanced at her, studying her expression with growing concern. “Ye think the Laird has a mistress?” she asked.
Eloise let out a sharp breath, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight before her. “Why else would they be arguing so fiercely?” she replied.
Beatrice shook her head slightly, “The Laird can fall into a foul mood over naught but the wind changin',” she said. “It may be nothin' more than that. Why would ye think such a thing?”
Eloise gave a small, humorless laugh, her gaze still fixed on the two figures beneath the tree.
“It isnae nothin',” she said softly, her voice lowering as though confessing something she had long kept hidden.
Beatrice turned fully toward her now, her interest piqued. “Speak cousin,” she pressed.
Eloise hesitated, her thoughts racing, before she spoke again. “One night… I found them in the corridor,” she admitted. “She was throwin' herself at him, Beatrice. Pressin' against him as though he were already hers.”
Beatrice gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Why did ye nae tell me?” she demanded, her eyes wide with shock.
“There is much I cannae tell ye,” Eloise said quietly, her voice tinged with guilt as she finally tore her gaze away.
Beatrice frowned, clearly unsatisfied, but before she could press further, Eloise glanced back toward the tree, and stilled. James had turned, his sharp gaze locking onto hers from across the distance, and Mairead followed his line of sight a moment later.
Eloise’s breath caught, heat flooding her cheeks as she realized they had been seen.
“They see us,” Beatrice whispered urgently, grabbing her arm. “Come, we shouldnae linger.”
Eloise allowed herself to be pulled away, though her gaze lingered a moment longer before she turned.
They hurried back toward the castle, the tension of what they had witnessed pressing heavily upon Eloise.
Once inside, the heavy wooden doors shut out the distant voices, but the unease remained.
Beatrice released Eloise’s arm only once they reached the quiet of the corridor, turning to face her with a mixture of concern and curiosity.
“There is something amiss here,” she said firmly. “I can feel it.”
Eloise pressed her lips together, folding her arms as she leaned back against the stone wall.